


it's void in the afternoon

by picapica



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2220483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picapica/pseuds/picapica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s void o’clock on Wednesday (or possibly Saturday, or perhaps no discernible point in time at all for time exists only as a human construct and is highly susceptible to influence) when Carlos realises that he can’t remember where he was born.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's void in the afternoon

It’s void o’clock on Wednesday (or possibly Saturday, or perhaps no discernible point in time at all for time exists only as a human construct and is highly susceptible to influence) when Carlos realises that he can’t remember where he was born.

Cecil is smiling at him over the lip of the glass he’s holding. Anywhere but Night Vale the glass could have been a champagne flute, but here the base of it is a clawed limb oozing with a liquid that smells like wet dog. Cecil holds it delicately in one hand, heedless to the liquid dripping in thick splats down along his forearm. “Carlos? You were saying?”

  “I – I can’t remember where I was born,” says Carlos, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I can’t—”

  “Oh, that’s perfectly normal,” says Cecil, the curve of his mouth growing wider. “It’d be pretty weird if I could remember being _born_.”

  “No, I – I can’t remember where I’m from,” says Carlos. “Where I grew up – where did I…? There must be a reason!”

            Cecil’s smile falters. The white flowers that had been in full bloom over his cheeks wither and shrink, their stems folding down along the line of his throat. “Is it time for science?” he asks, and Carlos doesn’t see his expression because he’s watching those flowers wither down under the collar of his pink shirt.

  “No,” says Carlos, after a second’s hesitation. “Here, your glass is empty. I’ll get you a new one.”

* * *

            The first time Carlos meets Cecil, in that first half-second, Cecil is a long brown face with round dark eyes and a cap of seemingly inflated pastel pink hair. Then Cecil smiles, a wide smile from a wider mouth, and chalk lines leap up along his neck, uncurling over his cheeks where they bud and burst open into large, full blossoms. “ _Carlos_ ,” he says, and the flowers quiver.

* * *

  “When’s your birthday?” asks Carlos, as they huddle together under a steel corrugated umbrella. He has to shout to be heard over the wet sound of bodies hitting the pavement. The glow cloud is feeling particularly generous today, it seems.

  “Oh, I haven’t received the notice yet,” says Cecil, absently wiping blood spatter from his chin. His tattoos are idle today, dormant branches reaching up to bisect his right eyebrow. There are buds there, their outlines little white ovals. Carlos rests a hand on Cecil’s waist and watches them bloom. “Why? Have you had yours? Oh, if you have you _must_ tell me – it’s dangerous to spend your birthday alone, you know. The cake might eat you if it’s not being supervised.” He leans closer, his voice taking on the tone of a conspirator. “I’ll let you share my bunker, but you can’t tell anyone.”

            The bush next to them rattles. Cecil glances at it. “You can’t tell anyone other than your Secret Police officer,” he amends. “Sorry, Ted.”

  “Of course I haven’t had a notice, my birthday’s—on...” except Carlos can’t remember, and when he next tries to speak it sounds eerily like television static. He closes his mouth but Cecil doesn’t appear alarmed by it, so he tries not to think about it too much.

* * *

  “What do you think of Night Vale?” asks Carlos, because he’s trying to figure out what questions are the right ones.

            Cecil, lying next to him in the bed they now share, rolls towards him. His hair flops onto the pillow, the same shade of pink it had been the day they’d first met despite a year with no mention of hair appointments. Carlos has never found any dye, either, and Cecil has never shown any hint of roots. Carlos can think of a number of college friends who would be jealous of having naturally pink hair, though for some reason he can’t quite seem to put names to them.

  “Home,” says Cecil, because of course he would. Carlos reaches to him and strokes a hand along the side of his head, over the prickle of the shaved side up to the down-soft plumes that grow unchecked up top. He watches, entranced, as flowers bloom in the wake of his touch.

            Cecil’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. 

* * *

            Cecil has a lopsided walk and his smile is wider than Niagara. He has pink hair and a pink jumper and a pink tie but he wears a furry tunic when he’s trying to impress. Cecil has no birthday and no childhood and he is full and rich in a way Carlos has never known anyone else to be.

            He lets Carlos use his favourite glass – the claw-footed, oozing one – whenever he comes over, and Carlos becomes an expert at getting the stains out of his clothes.

            Carlos is remembering less and less of what was before, sometimes forgets he is an outsider and is only reminded by a shared knowledge he has yet to encounter. He has no birthday now, cannot remember whether he had a mom and dad or just one or the other or two of one in particular or none altogether, but he is unafraid. Cecil lacks these things and when he sees Carlos flowers bloom on his skin. Carlos has no flowers with which he can return the gesture, so he just holds Cecil’s hand, but he thinks that Cecil understands.

* * *

            Night Vale isn’t frightening to those who have learned how to love it – because Cecil _is_ Night Vale, really, there in the gravel tones of his voice and how he knows things he shouldn’t be able to. And Carlos loves him.

 

* * *

           

^ my cecil headcanon. you can see more of my night vale art [on my tumblr!](pagalini.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> just a dreamy, thoughtful little thing. not much to it but i hope you enjoyed it! :))


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